𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑲𝒀 𝑾𝑨𝑺 𝑨 𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑬𝑻 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒓𝒐𝒏-𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒚, 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒖𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔, 𝒂𝒔 𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒐 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕. The abruptness of it caught me off guard; there hadn't been any sign, no whispers of a storm. But this was New York in July-where the unpredictable felt almost predictable.
Valentino's hand slid to my waist with the kind of ease that spoke volumes, his grip firm yet deliberate. It wasn't just grounding; it was possessive, a silent declaration as he unfurled the umbrella with a practiced flick of his wrist. The faint scent of his cologne mingled with the rain as droplets pattered rhythmically on the fabric above us.
The city, drenched and shimmering, seemed unwilling to yield to the rain. Neon lights bled into the puddles, streaks of color carving sharp reflections along the slick pavement. The hum of distant traffic blended with hurried footsteps and the occasional burst of laughter from strangers dodging the downpour, umbrellas clashing like swords in a duel. Despite the chaos around us, there was a stillness in the space we occupied-a tension so thick it felt like the air itself had conspired to hold its breath.
A few feet away, Nikolai stood unmoving, his silhouette framed by the restless glow of the streetlights. His hat, now tilted low, cast shadows over his face, making his expression unreadable, though his piercing gaze didn't waver. The umbrella he held hung at his side, forgotten for a moment, as if he were too preoccupied with dissecting whatever unspoken language passed between Valentino and me.
The rain wasn't the only storm brewing.
His sharp gaze cut toward Valentino briefly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression, before settling on me with unsettling focus. As he stepped closer, his presence loomed, the weight of his next words hanging heavy in the damp night air. His voice dropped to a low whisper, edged with a warning that curled into my chest like smoke.
"Look, Rowan," he began, his tone slow and deliberate, as though carefully choosing each word. "If you need my help, you know where to find me. But..." He hesitated, his jaw tightening ever so slightly, the pause heavier than any answer he could have given. "If you're seriously considering marrying him—"his eyes flicked to Valentino, who stood just a step away, a pillar of composed stillness, his golden gaze unreadable and his lips an unyielding line "—тогда вам нужно сказать ему правду." [then you need to tell him the truth.]
